Condolences on the Death of a Facebook Friend's Pet

I don't know what to say. I know the things that I could say, and none of them would be helpful or appropriate.

The first thing that I think of is the loss of Hamlet, months ago, and that still makes me cry. But I kinda cry a lot anyway, probably a bit too much for an adult male, right?

Should I tell you it will get better? It won't. "Better" only equals a lack of immediate sorrow, an increasing ability to be distracted. "Someday" you'll achieve a comfortable detachment -- a recognition of memory, or a past emotional connection, that no longer moves you enough to cause much pain.

To me, that sounds natural and productive...and just as sad as the sorrow itself. It reminds me that our deepest loves are arbitrary, even fickle in the long term. Anything that means something to us now will inevitably be rendered more or less disposable, given enough time.

Should I tell you that the two of you will meet again? You won't.

This is the seductive belief that our loved ones are simply 'away', simply existing more or less as they were, but in some other, happier place. Nothing makes me hurt quite as bad as when I imagine that impossible reunion. I want it with all of my heart, nothing would make me happier, but I understand too well that it's just culturally-reinforced wishful thinking. Fuck you, Rainbow Bridge. And while we're at it, fuck the Church and fuck Karma too.

Our loved ones are gone. The brief time that they were here is over. It was deeply beautiful in a way that beats just about anything else life has to offer, and maybe that's partially because of how brief it really was...and partially because it was not widely shared.

On that note, please understand why I didn't join too eagerly in the chorus of well-wishers and respect-payers. I never really knew your animal companion, not even as much as I knew you (which was, all things considered, hardly at all). I am just one of hundreds of names on your 'friend's list', and the time when we could been called friends (i.e., without quotes) was long ago and far away, if it ever really existed at all.

This means two things to me:

1) what right do I have to impose? Sure, you expressed feelings 'in public', a sort of invitation to join in your grief. I'd feel rude and insensitive if I turned down an actual invitation of that sort, but that's not really how 'electronic relationships' work. Please understand that my silence is more reverent than any half-assed message on your 'wall' could ever be.

2) the place that people will tell you to look forward to, where you can remember your loved one without the emotion really affecting your life anymore? I'm now pretty much in that place as far as you're concerned. Time and separation have removed almost all of my capacity to move you, to mean something to you. Whatever remnants you hold on to, from long ago and far away, would they really be honored by infrequent, impersonal, disposable text messages?

Apart from all that, I come back to my own feelings and thoughts about Hamlet.

When strangers (and 'friends') discover that I recently lost a pet, I can pretty much count on either awkward attempts at condolences, or their almost pathological need to share similar experiences. I do understand the sympathy, and the need to relate...but none of you really Know. How could you? You weren't with me during the love, and you weren't with me during the loss. Everything else is objective, impersonal, cerebral -- one or two steps removed, at best.

Hamlet continues to shine for me. That's mine, not anyone else's. Go ahead, call it selfish, call it dwelling...

Saying that he would have wanted me to be happy is meaningless. He wanted to be loved, and he showed what seemed like affection, and he seemed more likely to be happier when I was happy...but I have no illusion that he was complex enough to have 'wished me well'. He was all about 'now', and that now is done for him.

My only worry is that I'll envy him too much. Free of all capacity for suffering, emotional and physical -- that's a big plus. The only problem is that you lose the potential for any more wonderful 'nows' like that, ever again. That's why I feel sad for him, and I guess that's also why I should try not to feel too sad for myself -- so that I'll have more chance to gain (and lose) another Wonderful Now before I'm gone, and maybe offer that chance to others.

But I am sorry, not because I know how you feel, but because I know how I feel.